Make or Break

The next morning I was up a little later with a small but non-hampering hangover. Coffee helped me achieve full cognitive aptitude and I was in the middle of packing for my night at the game reserve, the mid-morning sun streaming in through the open doors to the balcony, when I got a call from Annabelle.

‘Hey!’ I said, cheered by hearing from my sister. She needed me! And then I gave myself a minor congratulation for my first instinct not being panic that something had gone wrong.

‘Hi, I just got a call from someone at Mum’s retreat.’

My self-congratulation stopped short and images of Mum being accidentally shot by someone at the rifle range while trying to flee the lentil dictatorship flooded my previously peaceful mind.

‘Oh no! What happened?’

‘Nothing. Apparently, she’s loving it and she’s staying on to do a five-day guilt workshop.’

‘Are you sure she isn’t being forced?’

‘No, she wants to stay.’

‘That’s what all captors say,’ I said darkly. ‘ “They stayed of their own free will”; “they were permitted to leave at any time”; “the bars on the windows are for their own protection”, and “they were kept in a cellar under the laundry because of the threat from acid rain”.’

‘Pfft,’ was Annabelle’s only reply.

I had to agree with her argument.

‘Anyway, what’s Mum got to be guilty about? Forgetting her “Bag for Life” one time?’

Annabelle giggled. ‘Maybe she neglected to let her “yellow mellow”.’

‘Accidentally not buying non-irradiated herbs?’

‘Thinking the chicken in the KFC ad looked tasty?’

‘Harbouring illicit thoughts about wanting to use normal shampoo full of chemicals and actual cleaning properties instead of baking soda and vinegar?’

‘Ahh, Mum,’ Annabelle said with a smile in her voice. ‘I hope she’s enjoying herself.’

‘Yeah, me too.’

‘Anyway, she’s due back the same day as you.’

‘Oh, I didn’t think about that. Are you going to be OK?’

‘We’re doing great,’ Annabelle said, and by the tone of her voice I knew we were not discussing it any further.

I changed the subject and continued packing one-handed. ‘Do you think it’s weird to go away with a guy I don’t really know?’

‘You seem to know him pretty well.’

‘But he could be a secret psychopath.’

‘Yes. He could be. They’re very good at hiding it, I hear. He’s probably been planning your death since the day he met you.’

‘Great. Thanks.’

I spent most of the day by the pool and at 2 p.m. Trust and I pulled up outside Diego and Ian’s to pick up Jimmy.

‘Do you mind if I do a bit of work?’ was the first thing he said as he came out to the van with his bag and a stapled script about an inch thick. ‘My tutor gave me heaps of really great notes and I want to work on them while it’s still fresh.’

‘Of course,’ I said with admiration.

So, for most of the two-and-a-half-hour trip, Jimmy worked on his script while Trust and I chatted and took turns playing each other songs we liked. Trust liked a lot of hip-hop and RnB. Trust did not like the soundtrack to Annie.

At 4.30 p.m. we drove down a dusty, potholed road and under a huge archway made out of intertwined branches. Trust parked up outside a collection of stubby-looking circular buildings with thatched, peaked roofs and hopped out to greet the waiting staff with wide smiles and fist bumps.

‘A drink, ma’am?’ a lady with a tray of drinks said.

Glasses of champagne, juice and water were on offer, all weeping with condensation.

‘Thank you,’ I said, taking a stem of champagne. I grinned at Jimmy, who did the same.

Trust and a porter took our bags away while another man smiled and said, ‘Follow me’. He took us into a plush reception building, where we signed some ‘arrival forms’ (waivers in case we were eaten) and were offered cool facecloths and water bottles from a fridge behind the thatched reception desk. Once we were all signed in, the smiling man led us through a covered walkway with elaborate rock gardens on either side, densely planted with the kind of spiky, sturdy specimens that thrive in arid conditions. He showed us the dining area, a huge round room with curved glass windows from floor to ceiling on one side that showed a view of a giant turquoise pool, a field of short, pale and patchy grass and beyond that, drinking from a muddy-looking pond of water . . .

‘ELEPHANTS!’ I screeched, jabbing Jimmy on the arm and nearly spilling his drink. ‘Do you see?! Do you see? Oh my god, there’s a baby!’

‘I see, I see,’ said Jimmy, more amused by my reaction than the elephants themselves.

‘Can we go down there? Can we touch them? Are they tame?’

The man with the wide smile laughed. ‘No, we cannot touch them. They trust their rangers, but we just watch and enjoy. See their rangers?’ the man said, pointing a few hundred yards from the elephants to a clutch of dry-looking trees.

‘Yes,’ I said, squinting. Two men stood underneath the tall trees in the patchy shade. I thought I could see rifles hanging casually over their shoulders. ‘What do they do?’

‘They follow the elephants. We must protect them.’

‘From what?’

‘Poachers,’ the man said with a brief expression of severity. Then he brightened. ‘Come, I show you your accommodations.’

We followed the man through the dining hall and into a sumptuous hunting-lodge-styled lounge. The head of a huge antelope-type thing, its horns twisted like a corkscrew, sat above the deep fireplace, its eyes black and glassy. With the intensity of the current heat I couldn’t imagine the fire ever having to be utilised. A log-framed bar ran the entire length of the room and wicker fans spun lazily above us. A waistcoated bartender poured chilled beers into iced pint glasses for a handful of hot and sweaty guests. Again, one side of the room was all glass, showing a different view of the elephants. I couldn’t take my eyes off them, drinking and swinging their trunks from left to right. It didn’t feel like they were real.

Only ten days ago I was in Balham on my sister’s doorstep, the drizzle soaking the cracked, filthy footpath behind Pete, looking at a printout that said I was going to Cape Town. And now, here I was, looking across African grasslands at elephants. Elephants, doing their elephant thing, in Africa, where elephants are from.

‘I think elephants are my favourite animal,’ I said.

‘How old are you?’ Jimmy handed his empty champagne glass to the bartender with a smile and a ‘thanks, mate’.

‘Twenty-nine.’ I flicked my fringe. ‘And a quarter.’

Jimmy laughed and we followed the man out of some French doors to another covered walkway. He pointed to the pool and the pool bar (definitely getting a visit from me), showed us through the high-tech gym, (not getting a visit from me), and then we walked out in the sunshine along an elevated broken shell path that circumnavigated the grassy field. The man ran through our itinerary as he walked ahead of us, frequently turning and grinning at our gaping, astounded expressions; drinks were available at any time in the lounge bar or at the pool bar or delivered to our room, all included in our stay. It was suggested we get an early night because we had to meet our personal safari guide at 5 a.m. out in the car park. We passed huts on stilts, each a few metres from the other, all facing the watering hole and the elephants, which I was still mesmerised by. We reached the end of the path and the man stopped at a short set of shallow steps and stretched out an arm, welcoming us to our hut. It was the last one and, where all the other huts had a veranda at the front facing the watering hole, ours also wrapped around the side, giving us an uninterrupted private view of the African plains as well. Jimmy and I climbed the stairs and walked along the veranda. Two chairs sat facing the private vista, a table between them with a champagne bottle waiting in a bucket of rapidly melting ice.

‘Zebras!’ I said, pointing out a herd of zebra in the distance, grazing on the side of a barren, dusty hill. ‘Oh my GOD! They’ve got babies too!’

The man chuckled. ‘Many babies.’

‘I love their stripes!! I can’t believe it! I think zebras are my favourite animal!’

Jimmy grinned and walked past me then stopped. ‘Jess, look.’

Past the chairs, at the very end of the veranda, jutting out over a rock ledge, bubbled a huge spa. Two thick towels sat on a rock alongside it. Jimmy and I looked at each other, wide-eyed and stupidly, uncoolly overexcited.

‘We hope you will enjoy your stay with us,’ the man said, his satisfaction at seeing our excitement evident in his wide grin. He handed Jimmy a key and backed off the balcony and down our little steps. ‘Please use the phone should you need anything. Welcome.’ And with that he left us.

‘Are you freaking kidding me?!’ Jimmy said standing next to the spa and looking out across the hot plains and the reddish mountains far in the distance. ‘Is your boss super rich?’

‘Not at all!’ I squeaked, fizzing with my good fortune. ‘It was a comp deal that she didn’t manage to get around to using. She’s going to be gutted when I tell her what she gave up! Poor Lana.’ I giggled and picked up the bottle of champagne. ‘More bubbles?’

I poured us a glass each and we headed inside to check out the cottage.

‘Oh,’ I said, stopping at the foot of a big, rustic four-poster bed with luxurious white sheets and enough pillows to open my own branch of Peter Jones. ‘I didn’t actually think about the sleeping arrangements.’

Jimmy looked around the rest of the room and I followed. Two armchairs sat at the foot of the bed, their rustic frames made out of thick logs of wood, their cushions in a chic African black and white pattern. There was a stone fireplace in the corner, an antique, leather-topped writer’s desk with lush stationery, binoculars and a phone, a mini fridge with mini bottles of all sorts of drinks and some luxury chocolates, a walk-in wardrobe that led to a gold-tapped bathroom with double sinks and a rock-walled shower with two gold shower heads, and that was it. We arrived back at the bed.

‘We could ask to change rooms?’ Jimmy said, but he lacked conviction.

What sane person on a limited budget would walk away from a luxury cottage with a spa and private views of a game reserve?

‘Lana said she booked the last room available but we could ask . . .?’ My heart wasn’t in it either. I walked back outside and looked at the champagne bottle, the spa and the view, then looked back at Jimmy standing in the doorway with his glass of champagne, his aviator sunglasses reflecting the incredible view behind me. ‘The bed is huge. We could just build a pillow wall down the middle?’

Jimmy smiled and chinked his glass against mine. ‘Done.’

‘Now this,’ I said, floating on my back with my sunglasses on in the aqua infinity pool. ‘Is my kind of South African swimming. Full of chemicals, cleaned daily, no chance of something toothy and violent getting intimate and with a swim-up bar.’

Jimmy, floating past me, his chest tanned and muscled, uh-huh-ed his agreement.

‘Shall we swim up?’

Jimmy and I sat on the in-pool stools, drank cocktails and laughed with the bartenders. We stood in the water and leant against the edge of the pool, the early-evening sun warming our bare shoulders and watched wildebeest, which had joined the elephants at the watering hole. As the sun lowered we headed back to the cottage, got changed for dinner and spent fifteen minutes watching the impossibly large, flaming sun fall towards the dusky blue mountain ranges on the horizon. I observed the zebra through the binoculars and kept saying, ‘I can’t believe I’m actually here’, until Jimmy pinched me and told me to believe it and shut up. We finished the champagne and watched the sky change colour and intensity with every passing second. Then, with a spray of perfume for me and a dab of cologne for Jimmy, we walked over to the dining hall, our skin still warm from our time in the sun.

Dinner was exquisite, and the staff seemed to thrive on the guests’ collective excitement at what the next morning held. It was still hot outside when we left the dining room and walked the crunchy shell path to our cottage. We ambled slowly, looking up at the curve of stars above, and our arms brushed against each other. Jimmy’s little finger almost hooked mine but he let it go and continued walking, looking upwards. We took turns in the bathroom then stood beside the bed, me in my leopard-print pyjama shorts and a vest and Jimmy in his boxers and a T-shirt.

‘Do we really need a pillow wall?’ Jimmy said. ‘The bed is massive.’

‘Probably not.’

Jimmy smiled and began taking the decorative pillows off the bed and tossing them onto the armchair. ‘Anyway, you promised you’d do no more advantage-thrusting and I want to be able to believe you.’

‘I’ll do my best,’ I said, laughing. I climbed onto the bed and slipped under the sheet.

Jimmy flicked off the light and jumped in on his side. We’d left the curtains open, as the man who’d shown us around had suggested, enabling us to lie in the moonlight and see the stars through the French doors.

‘Thanks for inviting me here,’ Jimmy said, lying on his side facing me.

‘Thanks for showing me around Cape Town,’ I said.

We looked at each other in the moonlight. Had I not had a boyfriend, I really couldn’t see myself getting through the night without thrusting my advantage. But, even with my future with Pete uncertain, I did have a boyfriend. One who, up until this trip where he’d instantly morphed into an adrenaline junkie who found me boring, I thought I’d end up marrying.

Jimmy seemed to sense my thoughts. He smiled. ‘Goodnight,’ he said. In place of a kiss he patted me on the top of the head like you would a good dog, making me laugh.

‘Goodnight,’ I said, patting him on the head and turning over.

The sheets were the silkiest I’d ever lain on and felt unbelievable against my sun-kissed skin. I willed myself to go to sleep but after half an hour I was still wide awake, the past week with Jimmy running through my head making me smile in the darkness. I could feel Jimmy’s awake body next to me. His breath was measured and his movements precise. I swallowed then shuffled backwards across the expanse of cool silk sheet until my back hit his. There was a brief moment where his muscles tensed. Then his body relaxed against mine.